


rouge line

by offlight



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 04:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10404195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offlight/pseuds/offlight
Summary: If there was one person Yuuri didn't want to work with, it was definitely the friend he'd accidentally slept with.





	

 

 

A recorded interview of Victor Nikiforov, dated back to March 8, 2008:

Victor is leaning on an arm of a plush chair casually. He does not look into the camera. The interviewer sits just out of sight, and when she speaks her voice is clear but disembodied.

“So tell us about your start in modeling.”

Victor’s smile is sweet. “I started when I was very young—I had many siblings and we were all raised by a single father, so our family could use any help we could get. I was introduced to a family friend in St. Petersburg that had connections to commercial modeling, and so I started going after school and on weekends.”

“And so you just branched off from there.”

“Yes, I was lucky enough to join an agency early. Yakov has taken good care of me, I’ve been blessed with many opportunities to collaborate with some of the industry’s best minds.”

“Like Christian Louboutin, Alexander McQueen—”

“Yes—Vera Wang—many of the greats. I’ve been very lucky.”

“I definitely see that. Well, you take some beautiful photos.” Victor laughs and raises a hand as if physically brushing the words aside. “But you’re so full of promise, I’m sure we’re all wondering—how do you enjoy modeling?” Victor blinks, his smile still in place but slight confusion in his eyes. The interviewer corrects herself hastily, “That is—are there ever any times when you wish you were doing something different?”

(The video pauses to buffer.)

 

.

 

Yuuri sits in an armchair in his hotel room, rubbing at his fingernail as he scrolls through the information Phichit and Celestino had given him on the Giacometti project. It’s a men's heels line. Yuuri taps his foot against the leg of his chair and imagines what it would feel to have heels pinching at his toes. They always looked so tight when he saw other people wearing them.

"This is slightly out of the norm, isn't it?" Yuuri asks, after Celestino had finally given him his quick briefing.

"What, being asked personally by a designer to be featured in their show? A little, for someone of your experience, but it's not abnormal for more established mo—"

"No, the heels."

"Oh, yeah," Celestino says, looking up briefly from the email that he was sending on his phone. "But there's a lot of love in this one. Giacometti poured a lot of attention, put his modeling career on hold because he said that it's so important to him. In his defense it is a huge project, he's even got Victor Nikiforov on board helping."

This is what Yuuri hadn’t accounted for. When the name drops, it drops like a weight in his chest, like ice water down his spine. It’s one of the select moments when the universe decides to test him by making a fool of him—throwing him the most unfair curveball—

Yuuri doesn’t realize that he’s holding his breath until he’s forced to exhale, shakily, and wonder just how long he’d been frozen. “Does he now,” he manages to say.

"Mmm, I knew you’d be excited about it." Celestino clicks his pen and tucks it away with a wink. "I won’t tell you no—” Yuuri makes to interject, but Celestino raises his hands in surrender. “No no, really—I’m not worried about it, you’re a professional. I know you’ll try to keep it on the down low. We have a full photoshoot in two days, we'll see how well it flies. Giacometti, full disclosure, told me that there would be a runway if things went well. I think he's hoping that social media closes in on this one."

"I see," Yuuri croaks.

He flips through a few photos from the moodboard now. Giacometti is going all-out sex appeal, it seems. There are a few lingerie models, a few photos of tuxedos alongside heels and scattered pearls. It reminds Yuuri of scandalous socialites. He tries to envision himself in their place but it's much too hard. He remembers Victor and his head automatically combines the images to present Victor as a wealthy yacht owner with a particularly bright-colored thong—Yuuri groans and doubles over until his forehead hits the table.

The nausea and fear are still there. It had never truly left, and he realizes that it never will. He runs through potential interactions with Victor in his head, but all of them end terribly.

He receives a phone call from Phichit later in the night—apparently he's going to be shooting in the same day, and is wondering if Giacometti might have group shoots planned.

"That would be fun, I don't think we've ever been shot together," Phichit says over the line, his voice crackling slightly over the line as he moves. "Sorry, just getting ready for bed."

"You're turning in early tonight."

"The skin, Yuuri, the skin. You should sleep early, too."

"I will. It would be fun to shoot with you," Yuuri says, and smiles as he remembers the last time he'd watched Phichit shoot. It had been years ago. "I still remember the swimwear editorial that you did, with the umbrellas on the beach."

Phichit laughs. "That was so long! I don't even remember who for—"

"I think it was Banana Republic."

"Oh you're right, it was Banana Republic. You were there, too, that day!"

Yuuri grimaces. It had been one of his first big shoots, and he'd spent all of the time with his jaw locked in anxiety. In the end only one of his pictures was chosen—he was dressed in dark blue swim trunks and a white button-down shirt, a beach volleyball hoisted up over a shoulder and his head mid-turn to the side. His eyes were closed and his mouth pulled up into a laugh. It was the only one where he didn't look uncomfortably stiff, and the reason for that was just because Phichit had tripped off to the side and fallen face-first into the sea. Even then it was only featured on a page in the catalogue. Phichit's shot, of him standing in the ocean with an arm outstretched and a dreamy, romantic look on his face, had been blown up to be featured in the retail stores.

"That was a rough one for me."

"I liked your shot! And it's been years, you look much more comfortable in front of the cameras now."

That at least is true—but Yuuri shakes his head. It would be a bigger pity if he was still scared of cameras after over a dozen years at the job.

"I'll head to sleep now, Phichit, I'll see you in two days."

"Got it, take care, talk to you then!"

 

.

 

The following excerpts are taken from “An interview with rising model Yuuri Katsuki”:

**Had you always wanted to be a model?**

No, before I was scouted modeling wasn’t on my radar. I think if Celestino hadn’t found me I would be working at my family’s inn. We run one of the last bathhouse inns in my city, and I’d love to go back to work someday. But for now I’m enjoying my life as is. I’m very grateful for the opportunities to travel and meet so many talented people.

**What has been your biggest takeaway from modeling so far?**

That it’s a hard life. (laughs) I think it’s a very glamorized job, so many people think that we just rush around from photoshoot to show to afterparty all the time. And it is fun, but it’s also hours of posing in front of hot lights and being careful of staying in shape. It’s also very hard to make lasting friendships, I’ve found, so it can get kind of lonely. But I think the saddest thing is that I can’t eat my favorite foods whenever I want. (laughs)

**What is your favorite food?**

It’s katsudon—a Japanese dish with fried pork on top and rice. It’s comfort food for me, my mother always used to make it. But as you can tell, not the healthiest out there. (laughs)

**Could you give us some insight and tips from how you maintain your perfect body?**

Be very careful about what you eat and make sure you get in daily exercise! More important than getting an ideal body shape, it’ll keep you healthy. But make sure you never skip meals, and be cautious if you start making too many sacrifices for the sake of your body shape. I’ve learned that it won’t work if your heart’s not in it—it shouldn’t be a punishment, but a negotiation. 

 

.

 

 

The glass of soda water in his hand is growing warm. Yuuri swirls it and smiles to pacify the group that he’s standing with, but his eyes continue to scan the room. He knows that he is not being entirely convincing.

“Katsuki’s preoccupied tonight,” Emil says, and Yuuri turns on reflex. Emil is pinching a rum and coke precariously with five fingertips, and grins when he succeeds in getting Yuuri’s attention. “On the hunt for someone?” His voice suggests he knows exactly who Yuuri is on the hunt for.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri says.

“Aww, cute—but you’re too old to get away with playing dumb.”

Surprisingly, it’s Seunggil who comes to his rescue. “Don’t try to change the subject, Emil,” he says, “Unless you really want us all to believe your boyfriend left you over your—”

Emil cuts him off with a loud cough, flushing a vivid pink. Yuuri takes the chance to slip away, and feels Phichit’s eyes on him as he does so.

He downs the rest of his soda water for an excuse to pick up another drink, and this time doesn’t check to see if it’s alcoholic or not. Celestino would survive if he had a few more calories than expected.

He takes a sip. Water. Just his luck.

“You’ve moved on to vodka already? I’m surprised.”

Yuuri would be able to recognize that voice from anywhere. He draws on the tension he’d been cultivating all night and plasters on a reasonable smile. Victor is standing to his side, having just taken a glass from the same waiter. He’s dressed in a dress shirt, sleeves rolled, and dark slacks, and looks as effortlessly attractive as ever.

Yuuri brings his glass to his lips again. “You should put that down, you’ll only be disappointed.”

Victor blinks, looking between his glass and Yuuri’s. “What, really?”

“Unfortunately.”

He raises the glass and sniffs it—and quickly scrunches his nose in distaste. He sets the glass down on the nearest table. “Who serves water at a party anyway?”

“Someone that knows they’re entertaining models,” Yuuri says. Victor doesn’t look convinced, and is already craning his neck around for more drinks.

“A shot glass worth of water though? That’s just cruel and unnatural—I suppose it’s Chris’s fault for only using the same glasses—waiter—!”

He flags down and takes another glass, not without first asking to confirm it was vodka before sighing and waving away the waiter. Yuuri keeps his jaw clenched and hopes that Victor doesn’t notice the strain in his neck. The conversation hasn’t grown awkward as of yet, but the night is young.

He follows Victor out onto the pool and exchanges customary updates—he’s been traveling China and Thailand, doing fashion and editorial shoots, and hasn’t been back in Europe since the August before. His weight and skin have been fine, has Victor had any more trouble with his skin? Victor laughs and shakes his head no—he hadn’t, thank goodness, otherwise Yakov may have bitten his head off. He’s been in the United States, in New York, walking a few runways for notable brands and starting the collaboration with Chris in his penthouse. Yuuri should visit sometime, he’d be able to take him around.

It’s an invitation out of politeness, reminiscent of how good friends they’d been before they fucked it up by—literally—fucking. Nevertheless, Yuuri plays along. “I haven’t been to New York since fashion week a few years back,” he responds.

They reach the lip of the pool. There are only a few stragglers out here, in small groups of two or three, with their voices lowered. They all turn to look when Yuuri copies Victor by sitting across from him on a pool chair. Victor matches their stare boldly until they look away, and Yuuri ignores them.

“It’s changed a lot, you’ll like it.” Victor snaps his fingers. “Speaking of, did I tell you about my new protege?”

“You? A protege?”

He laughs and pulls out his phone. “Okay, not necessarily my protege—a new model that Yakov’s signed on and that I help with—”

Yuuri takes the phone and looks at the picture that’s pulled up. It’s a younger teenage boy—blonde, dressed in trendy casual clothes with his legs crossed loosely in front of him. He’s mid-laugh, his eyes curled into sweet crescents. He looks utterly angelic.

“He’s a jackass,” Victor confirms.

“Oh,” Yuuri says. “I think I’ve seen him before.”

“You might have—he’s practically the face of Gap right now.”

“He’s in America with you?” Yuuri asks, returning the phone.

“Just for a bit, Yakov wants him back in Russia.”

“Are you going with him?”

“Don’t know yet, I’m not sure about my plans after Rouge,” Victor says, tapping around a bit on his phone before shifting and sliding it back into his pocket. The waves of the pool, cast from the underwater lights, shift in waves on his face and darken his nose and brow with shadow. Yuuri has never been great at reading Victor, but he realizes that it’s even harder now. “What about you, where are you headed next?”

Yuuri shrugs. “That depends on Celestino.” He doesn’t say it—if Rouge does end up being a success, he may have to stay on to walk in more shows. Victor would as well. He takes a sip of water and listens as Victor changes the topic.

 

.

 

Excerpts taken from Victor Nikiforov’s Snapchat story on January 14, 2017:

Five second video of a pair of white lace heels sitting on what looks like a messy workbench—the camera pans around it in a slow circle. Overlaid is a sticker of the monkey with its hands over its mouth and the words “Rouge?”

Four second video scrolling slowly around a bustling backstage prep room. There is a small row of lit vanities at the center of the room, each of them overflowing with makeup palettes and combs and brushes. There are models seated at each of vanities, some of them with their faces turned up for the makeup artists or staring straight into their mirrors. One of them looks up—Jean-Jacques, who is in the middle of getting his hair trimmed. He grins and sticks out his tongue at the camera, and then the footage cuts off.

  

.

 

What does he remember about that night? Not enough, Yuuri’s embarrassed to admit. What he does remember can be summed up quite neatly—the bucket of ice metled into chilled water, Victor’s mouth so hot on his neck, the shirt button that popped off in their haste that he found in his shoe the next morning after dressing hastily, and (the way that he remembers it,) he’s never come so hard in his life.

He still remembers their last interaction though, clear as day—the planes of Victor’s back and his voice, low and quiet in the early hours of the morning—“They don’t want you to smoke in here.” And how fast he’d left the room, how he’d walked without turning back because goddamn did he fuck up—

 

.

 

His fitting goes without a hitch. Yuuri stands half-naked in front of Giacometti and the dressers and keeps his posture ramrod straight. He fights the urge to yawn. Phitchit had kept him up late the night before in the hotel, catching him up on the past few weeks as they flipped through Instagram. He's already grateful they don't make a big deal of the bags under his eyes. 

He wouldn't be wearing much during the show—apparently Giacometti wanted them all to look "thoroughly fucked" (verbatim, unfortunately) and Yuuri accordingly would look like he'd just rolled out of bed after an eventful night. The clothes themselves would be simple to highlight the shoes. Yuuri shakes his arms through the wrinkled dress shirt and holds his breath as they measure around his waist. He'd be wearing the shirt, an undone tie around his neck and his underwear, and nothing else. He thinks dryly to himself that if he'd known, he would've come to his fitting in pajamas. 

He's finally allowed to see the heels themselves. They're cherry-red and tall, taller and simpler in design than Yuuri had expected. 

"Make sure they're comfortable and not too loose around your feet," Giacometti says, eyes on Yuuri as he pulls the shoes on. "I need to know now if there’s anywhere that it doesn’t fit right."

Yuuri shakes his head. He stands up, and feels the world lurch dangerously around him. Giacometti's arm is out for him to grab onto, to stop him from falling right onto his face. His heart is hammering in his chest from the shock. 

"This is harder than it looks," he says, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. He tries shifting is weight around. Giacometti watches him, careful but unimpressed. 

"Yes, well," he says. His eyes are drifting off to the other side of the room, where another model is being fitted. "Try to get used to it. Walk around a bit and then tell me how it feels—I'll be back to check on you in a bit. Make sure you stop if your ankle hurts."

A few dressers and stylists stay by Yuuri’s side as he walks a few laps. He improves quickly. The shoes pinch at his feet and he still feels careened forward, but after a few minutes it becomes bearable. 

It turns into another game with Phichit that night. They both hold heels that are supposedly the same height and feel as the ones they'd be wearing for the show. Giacometti wanted them to practice. 

"You're only hurting your own career if you trip," Giacometti had said, watching as Yuuri turns the shoebox in his hands. "Consider this a gift from me to you."

Both of their practice heels are black. When Yuuri puts on his pair he can't even tell if they were similar to the pair from earlier today—these aren't as soft, and he can already tell they’ll chafe at the sides of his feet. 

Phichit has his pair on and is standing straight in them, without support. “You know, I think these make my posture better,” he says. Yuuri pulls his hand away from the wall for a single moment and wobbles—he reaches out again, quickly. Phichit walks a line and turns, toe firm on the ground.

“You’re very good at this,” Yuuri says, smiling. 

They walk a few paces, back and forth, and Yuuri quickly regains the comfort level from earlier today. The heels are tall, but not overbearingly awful. “Giacometti wants hips in the walk,” Phichit says. He tries to mimic the soft hip swings of other models in heels, but wobbles dangerously. Yuuri grabs his arm before he falls.

“You have to concentrate your weight onto your toes.”

“I don’t know how the girls do it. Their legs cross a bit, too—when they walk—“ Phichit steps forward again, his weight heavy in his toes, hips rising and falling, and his feet cross over each step. Yuuri nods.

“That looks about right.”

“Here—let me watch you, then."

They practice until Yuuri feels the skin around his feet rub bright red, and he stops. There’s no good from damaging his feet. 

 

.

 

Yuuri wonders if the time that they do have together, during the Rouge promotions, would be enough for them to somehow salvage their old friendship. He lays in bed and remembers the poolside conversation—it had been closer to what they were before. It was still slightly stiff, but nothing else. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he no longer has the desire to run straight in the other direction when he spots Victor.

He pulls out his pillow from under his head and pushes it onto his face, groaning. He can already hear the bitching from makeup the next morning about his inevitable eyeballs.

 

.

 

Three second video. It pans quickly around the Rouge models, all waving and goofing around for the camera. It’s lifted up so high that it’s hard to see Phichit’s face, but it’s still easy to see that his mouth is open wide in excitement, his eyes bright. Yuuri is the second closest to the camera, from his position behind Phichit’s shoulder, and he bites his lip and smiles, wiggling his fingers. It’s difficult to make out anyone else because of how fast the camera pans.

Five second photo. It’s Phichit and Yuuri—Phichit with a hand tucked coyly under his chin and his mouth open in a wide grin, eyes closed cheekily; Yuuri smiling at the camera widely, his fingers up in a ‘v’ to the side of his cheek. Overlaid is a black bar with the text—“rouge photoshoot, go go go!”

  

.

  
Yuuri’s solo shots from the Rouge shoot:

Him with a leg bent over the back of a chair, red-heeled foot planted firmly on the seat of it. His tie is undone around his neck, a few buttons loose, and he’s pulling on the ends of it with his neck stretched back, vulnerable. His eyes are sultry in the camera and his lips open just slightly, bright red.

Another. Him in a power pose this time, legs wide and the camera angle so low that it makes his legs look like they’re miles long. The shoes cast beautiful shadows on the floor.

Victor’s solo shots from the Rouge shoot:

Him crouched on the ground, pinky dragging his lower lip down from a corner, one eyebrow quirked up high. His heels are ice white and delicate. A litter of lipstick smudges up his neck, collar popped open. His lipstick, as well, is smudged dramatically to the side, as if he’d tried to rub half of it away.

On the next page is a wide spread of both of them. Yuuri is seated back on a couch, his legs spread wide, heels pressed firmly into the ground. His hands are pressed down, though they’re covered by Victor, and his head is rolled back again, enough to bear his neck generously while still looking straight into the camera. Victor is between his legs, arms resting on Yuuri’s knees, one arm curled enough to press knuckles against his lips as he eyes the camera from under hooded lids.

 

.

 

"When I was younger I'd always wanted to be a figure skater."

Yuuri wrinkles his nose. "Very left field." They're sitting against a wall in the cyc studio, watching all of the staff breaking down equipment and packing it away. It had been a long day of shoots, and the studio was so hot with all of the people that both of them were sweating. They did their best to stay out of the way.

"Not for me. My family loves figure skating. I'd grown up watching it. My mother—" Victor breaks into a chuckle at some memory. "A self proclaimed expert. She believes she can score routines better than the judges themselves." He raises an arm towards the sky and turns his face up. There is a surprisingly serene smile on his face. His elongated eyelashes cast shadows onto his cheekbones. "Her favorite would be their turns—the fast ones, you know—when their arms went up like this. Bonus points."

"But you didn't go into figure skating."

Victor's arm falls. "Nah."

Yuuri watches him. He rubs at the curves of his fingernails, waiting in silence, until it becomes clear Victor isn't interested in elaborating any further. Yuuri feels a sudden rush of bravery.

"Maybe it's better off this way."

Victor laughs, receptive. "Yeah?"

“You’re good at what you do.”

“That I am.”

“Imagine missing fashion week for—for—skating competitions.”

“People take skating seriously.”

“As seriously as they take walking down stages in heels?” Yuuri asks, and smiles when he’s rewarded with Victor’s laughter. His chest burns.

“Maybe even more seriously,” Victor teases. “Especially you.”

“Me?”

"Of course. Because you'd be my biggest fan."

The unexpectedness and pretentiousness of the statement makes Yuuri choke. Victor frowns, feigning offense, but the corners of his mouth are twitching upwards.

"Me, your biggest fan?"

"Posters and signed photographs all over your room," Victor says, staying as stoic as he can, but he’s shaking at the shoulders now and the corners of his lips keep twitching. “You follow me everywhere, watch my routines over and over again. It’s your dream to shake my hand.”

"Oh goodness."

"You fell for my arm—" He raises his arm back up towards the ceiling, his movements and the tilt of his head more exaggerated this time. Yuuri, who had been calming back down, cracks up again.

"Oh, of course," he manages to choke out between giggles, "During your spins—"

"During my spins—" Victor confirms. "And of course my general elegance."

"Your general—good God—"

Victor is laughing now, too, his mouth cracked into a grin that’s too gummy to be pretty, and it’s the most childish Yuuri’s ever seen him. It's a sight that he's surprisingly fond of, and Yuuri continues to poke fun and tease at Victor's imaginary figure skating life until Victor's face grows pink and he's laughing hard to the point where little sound escapes.

It takes them ages to calm back down. They're heaving afterwards, gasping for air, bursting into sporadic giggles when they remember the mental image of world-class figure skater Victor Nikiforov and his biggest fan Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri lets his head fall against the wall, his mouth still broken into a wide grin, his throat sore from all his laughing.

Victor tells him why he never picked up figure skating when they do finally calm down. Their postures are more relaxed now, at ease around each other.

"It's really obvious, actually," he says casually, as if they were discussing Chris's recent design change. "We didn't have the money. I started child modeling to help support my family—and then, well, there just wasn't time afterwards."

Yuuri shakes his head. “It’s not too late.”

“To compete? It is. But that’s okay. I’m fine with where I am now,” Victor says, and splays out his hands on the floor, wide, the five fingers stretching out like spokes on a fan. Yuuri is filled suddenly with an urge to place his hand down too, to compare the sizes.

 

.

 

Ten second video of Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri is sitting back in a chair, his eyes down and focused on his phone as a finger scrolls through something. The camera zooms in quickly, getting grainier and grainier as it focuses exclusively on his face until Yuuri notices and looks up past the camera lens and to Victor, smiling. He asks, “What are you doing—?” in the background, but it’s hard to hear because Victor’s started speaking, his voice closer and louder, “We’re here to bother world-class model Yuuri Katsuki—” Yuuri starts to laugh, and the video cuts off abruptly.

Ten second video. A continuation. The camera is zoomed out all the way again but is closer to Yuuri. Yuuri looks more prepared now, his phone down but his eyes still on Victor above the camera. His lips are pulled into an easy and lax smile as Victor asks, “So we just had a rehearsal walk for Christophe Giacometti’s runway show—” Yuuri starts laughing again as Victor continues, “And you seemed to find something so terribly funny in the middle of it—could you enlighten us as to what that is?” Yuuri stops laughing and pulls his face into a mockingly stern look, jutting his lips out in an exaggerated pout. The camera starts shaking again, this time not on purpose, as Victor’s voice rises indignantly—“I do not look like that—!” The video cuts off again as Yuuri breaks character, bursting again into laughs.

Ten second video. It’s the front facing camera this time, tilted up at an angle that’s flattering for Victor’s face. He looks at his own reflection, shaking his hair slightly and adjusting the angle to show his cheekbones. Yuuri is prodding around with his phone again in the background. “So world-class model Yuuri Katsuki thinks my runway face is funny—” Yuuri doesn’t look up from his phone but does the exaggerated pout again in the background, this time his smile creeping through as the corners of his lips twitch. Victor’s face pulls into an exasperated frown. “It doesn’t look like that!” Yuuri starts swaying his shoulders dramatically, as if to an imaginary beat. The camera jolts suddenly, blurring as Victor drops his arm with an exasperated, “Oh God, fine—”

Seven second video. The room is significantly better lit, and the camera is focused on Victor from the distance. He is runway walking down a long staircase with his chin up and feet in tall, black stilettos. His face is haughty, and with every step his weight falls hard to push up a hip. It’s too far away to see his face that clearly. There’s a pause of black and then the sight flips to the front-facing camera. It’s not a very flattering angle and is too close to Yuuri’s face, but he’s still looking above the screen. Yuuri’s face is impassive and pointedly unimpressed, and he shakes his head. A black bar of text sits across the middle, reading ‘Save me.’

 

.

 

Yuuri wants to punch himself. What is he scared of? He doesn't know. Who is he scared of? Himself? Victor? 

He remembers the look in Victor's eyes that day—though he didn't say it out loud, Yuuri knows that Victor had read in him uncertainty about the future, confusion of whether or not it was even worth throwing their friendship in the trash if nothing would probably come of them being together—and what had hurt him, had truly hurt him to the point where he had to leave, was what Victor had put on display as response—his eyes, saying—"I don't care. Stay here."

 

.

 

The Giacometti show as recorded by videography intern Paul Reynolds from Fischer Studios:

The camera opens on what looks to be the interior of a beautiful, modern mansion. A double staircase winds up the center, both arms thrown wide and glass steps glimmering in natural light. An enormous chandelier hangs from the ceiling above. All of the seats are gathered around the bottom of the staircase, and it is those seats that the audience files into. Nothing of note happens in the first few minutes, nothing aside from the low murmur of the audience and shifting figures as people move around and shuffle seats. Though the camera is far, it’s obvious that this is a distinguished and exclusive crowd.

Ten minutes or so in, the chandelier flickers off, and the crowd falls into a complete hush. The light of the sunset is all that remains, and it casts yellow-orange shadows from the glass steps onto the tile floor below. It is in this stillness that the music begins to play. In real life it sounds forceful, with a combination of sharp snare and thick bassline. Giacometti’s models will be able to feel the force of the music, racing up through their shoes to shake their bones. But through the recorded footage, it sounds tinny and cheap.

Phichit Chulanot is the first to walk. He rounds the corner and appears at the left staircase, chin up and eyes darkened for drama. He is not smiling, not like how his friends often find him, but instead his lips are parted slightly and he looks down haughtily as he descends the staircase. This is the look that all of the models wear today, as per Giacometti’s orders—a mix of haughty and overbearing meant to instill awe in the audience.

In an interview later, Giacometti will tell reporters that the goal and theme of his runway was to reclaim the stereotypical ‘walk of shame.”

“My models will wear the same look,” he says loudly, a practiced smile on his face. “But there will be no shame in them—only a total embrace and acceptance of who they are and what they've come to accomplish. And they've come to kill.”

Accordingly, Phichit is dressed in a wrinkled shirt and boxer briefs, both of them dark. There is a slightly oversized watch, purposely cheap, dangling from his wrist. All of this is made plain in order to highlight his shoes of course—tall stilettos, pastel blue and gold-rimmed on the bottom, strappy enough to curl multiple times around his ankles each before being tied off into a small bow.

He descends the staircase, his walk all hips to showcase his legs. He poses at the base—sultry eyes and weight shifted back as he turned on a single toe, elegant and confident—before turning and heading back up the second staircase. At the top he turns to look at the next model before walking off.

The others follow him in the same way. Leo is next, with velvet heels colored a rich, royal blue, followed by Emil in baby-pink heels with lace borders and Seunggil in heels that look as clear as crystal and clack along to the beat, clearly, on the steps of the staircase. There is a silver anklet dangling around his right ankle, but that detail is nothing more than a blur in the recorded footage. It is only possible to make out the heart charm on it bouncing against the knob of his foot as he turns to head back up the second staircase.

Georgi descends in a combination of combat boots and the tallest platform stilettos ever seen, and as he walks the firmness of his steps and the sway of his hips makes it look as if he was out for blood. Michele, a blush painted high on his cheeks for character as he struts down in high-platformed, wine-red shoes with gold heels. Otabek and Jean-Jacques after him, one at a time, in identically tall heels of metallic bronze and white glitter, respectively. Jean-Jacques milks his pose and turn, as Giacometti had ordered him to, and the intricately cut heel of his shoe casts a rainbow circles onto the runway around him.

Yuuri is second to last. He descends, eyes hooded and cherry-red lips pulled into the lightest pout, hair tousled and matted suggestively, and as he steps his hips roll so naturally and sharply that it looks clear and beautiful even in the distorted camera footage. His heels are a deep red, simpler in design than the others, but he accentuates his legs so thoroughly in his walk that they look extravagantly long.

He turns at the base, fixing his eyes straight on the camera and tugging on his bottom lip, kicking a leg up and turning to walk back. At the top he turns again for his second pose, but instead looks over to make eye contact with the last model.

Victor Nikiforov comes out, his eyes lock on Yuuri’s, until their heads snap away from each other and Victor begins his descent. The intricate white lace of his heels are blurred in the camera footage, but as they stepped over glass steps they were astonishingly beautiful. He does not walk as seductively as Yuuri did but instead glides—feet crossing over each other as he somehow milks out the beats of the song to extend for him, letting him lift leg after leg carefully with a subtle flashiness that none of the other models emulated. His head is looser as he walks, rolling and tilting from one shoulder to another, his hair slipping to cover his eye and then the part of his lips as he shifts, and when he reaches the bottom he leans to a side, closing his eyes for a moment, before opening them again to look straight into the camera.

He turns and starts back up the second staircase, and it is when he is halfway up that his ankle jerks to the side and he drops to a knee. The audience startles, shifting and murmuring in their seats. But from the back, Victor does not look to be affected. He rises silently to his feet and continues, floating up and marking his final pose at the top of the staircase without an obvious break in character.

There is a slightly longer delay than usual before the finale, but otherwise no change. The models file down the staircase together clapping as the audience around them rises to a standing ovation. The models still hold cold expressions, in character, and hold their poses on the staircases until the music finally ends and the chandelier bursts back into light, ending the show.

 

.

 

Hands on his ankle. “Does it hurt?” People are trying to shove him aside, telling him that it’s time to line up for the finale, but he doesn’t give a shit.

Victor looks down at him. There isn’t clear pain on his face—Yuuri can’t see it through the layers of makeup—but there’s some strain on his brow and tightness in his lips.

“I can walk.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Hands grab his shoulders. Yuuri shrugs them off. They return, harder. “Line up now, Katsuki—”

He fights the urge to bark, “Fuck you.”

“I can still walk,” Victor says, but it sounds like defeat. He straightens up, as if everyone’s eyes weren’t already on him. “I can still walk,” he repeats, louder.

Yuuri bites his tongue. Victor catches his look, and there’s something softer in his eyes.

“It was just a stumble. Don’t worry.”

“As long as you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” He takes a step. He wobbles. Yuuri catches his elbow. Their heels are roughly the same height—Victor is still a whole head taller, but the bend in his shoulders brings him low.

He doesn’t catch himself in time. His hand slides up, to curve around Victor’s neck, thumb on his cheek. Victor turns to look at him now, completely.

Yuuri doesn’t know what to say. He has a realization, but it's too much for his head. His tongue is fat in his mouth.

Victor looks disappointed. “It’s fine,” he says, turning away.

“I want you to be okay,” Yuuri says lamely.

“I’m always okay.”

Yuuri can’t help but feel that he fucked up somehow, and that makes him desperate. “Don’t lie to me. You can lie to whoever the fuck you want—but don’t lie to _me_.”

Victor looks down. “They’re calling us.”

"You can't lie to me because I—I'm not like them—I'm here to stay—"

"Yuuri," Victor says, and Yuuri listens this time.

They line back up by the edge of the curtain for the finale. Yuuri can see the white lights outside. He grabs Victor’s sleeve. Victor brushes his hand off again, but this time his face has regained its softness.

“After,” he says, and that’s that.

 

.

 

Ten second video. The camera is tilted slightly down on Victor as he smiles cheerily into the lens. He blows a kiss and then turns it slightly to reveal Yuuri sitting at his side, on his phone. He moves the screen closer to Yuuri, who looks up and juts out his lower lip in a mockingly sad expresion. The overlaid text reads: “bye bye rouge! :(”

Ten second video. It is shaky and jarring, following Victor from above as he walks. The figure to his side is easily identifiable as Yuuri, even though the camera blurs on his face. “Thank you everyone for supporting Rouge!” he says, his voice breaking occasionally. Yuuri chimes in with a “Thank you—!” but it’s cut short slightly.

Three second picture. It’s the whole cast of Rouge, except the colors are darkened and grittier. It’s very difficult to make out what’s going on. The text is block and white, large: “AFTERPARTY TIME!”

 

.

 

They sit in Victor’s room early in the morning, picking at tater tots from room service and drinking wine out of mugs. Victor is in a bathrobe, after his shower, and when he laughs wine spills out the side of his mug and drips onto it in ruby.

“And fucking JJ—drunk as hell—”

Yuuri rolls his eyes and pours more wine. They’d gone around to the afterparties and gotten properly wasted already, and he’s maintained a light buzz all evening that’s finally culminating into a thick cottonfield. He reacts more to what Victor’s saying than what he actually remembers—he’s long forgotten what it was that JJ did earlier this evening.

“Isn’t he always—”

“God yes—and even Georgi and Otabek—they put away so much—holy shit—”

“I forgot you could,” Yuuri says, and Victor claps in glee. Wine splashes everywhere.

“It’s my job.”

“You’re a model.”

“My _second_ job.”

“Everyone’s still crazy as ever.”

“Everyone’s so fucked up,” Victor laughs, and in his drunken state extends his limbs out further with every movement. It looks like he’s on a boat.

“I love them all.”

“I love them too.”

“Even though I hate them.”

Victor tips back laughing. “Don’t hate them.”

“I hate them for taking my jobs.”

“Oh. That’s okay. I hate them for being hotter than me.”

“They’re not hotter than you,” Yuuri says seriously, and fights a burp.

“Aww.” Victor holds a hand over his the skin in the V of his bathrobe. “Thanks.”

“You knew that.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri throws a tater tot at him, and it falls into a crease in his bathrobe. Victor cackles nonetheless, shaking in his laughter, mug tipping precariously towards the carpet floor. “Fuck. I’m so happy.”

“You’re what?” Yuuri asks. He hadn’t heard.

“Happy. I’m so happy.”

“You’re happy?”

“I’m happy.”

"Yeah?"

"Cause you're here."

Yuuri looks at him. In the mix of lamplight and moonlight, he’s a mix of blue and yellow that makes him soft and cold at the same time.

“Yuuri.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to kiss me,” Victor says, leaning forward. “Once now, and once again when we’re sober so I know you won’t leave again.”

The weight of his heart is dulled by the alcohol, but Yuuri can feel it nonetheless. “Okay,” he says, and leans in. His nose bumps straight into Victor’s cheek before they connect—even then it’s soft and muted. “Only one?”

“One later, too.”

“How much later?” Yuuri wishes he’d say now.

“Tomorrow morning,” Victor says, and rolls his head until his face is buried in Yuuri’s neck. “Fuck,” he says, and his voice is so close Yuuri can feel the vibrations in his bones. It makes him shake.

“What?”

“I’m so scared you’re going to leave again.”

What little is left in Victor’s cup has tipped over onto his bathrobe, soaking one of his sleeves red, but neither of them notice.

“I’m not gonna go,” Yuuri says. He wishes he was sober, so he was more convincing. He believes what he says with every ounce of his being.

“You can’t leave.”

“I won’t.”

“Stay right here.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Yuuri strokes Victor’s hair until he drifts off to sleep. He doesn’t know why he stays awake, his right arm still sore from holding the mug until he finally just drops it onto the carpet, red spilling everywhere. His thighs burn from being stretched so far forward that Victor can cling to him, pulling him down slowly until they’re both on the ground between the chairs, Victor’s splayed in his lap.

Yuuri’s eyes are on the window—and when the sun rises, it rises with gold.

 

.

 

Ten second long video. It’s of Victor, sitting in what looks to be a breakfast place with the morning sun filtering in behind him. A full table of pancakes and eggs and sausages are spread out in front of him. A pitcher and two glasses of mimosa are visible. He’s dressed in a clean shirt and dark sunglasses, his hair looking tousled in the wind, which also buffets the sound in annoying gusts. The video cuts in mid sentence, “—But I don’t really like the Met as much as the Louvre, I get lost as hell every single time I go there, when we go you need to naviga—” and cuts off.

 

**Author's Note:**

> everything i know about the fashion industry i learned from google and buzzfeed videos so i apologize. i just wanted to see them in heels + lipstick tbh.................. i'm simple
> 
> also, just for fun, imagine them walking to junglebae's backwardz for maximum effect


End file.
